The Cat Who Talked to Ghosts (26 page)

Folded in with the diagram was a small slip of paper in Ephraim Goodwinter's unmistakable hand:

Rec'd of Ephraim Goodwinter the sum of one thousand dollars ($1,000) in consideration of which the undersigned agrees to do stonework as specified, privately and without help and without revealing same to any living soul, work to be completed by August 15 of the current year. Signed and accepted this day of May 16, 1904.

Luther Bosworth X (his mark)

"Luther couldn't even write his name!" Qwilleran exclaimed. "How do you like that?"

Hearing no reply he looked for the cats. Yum Yum was asleep on the hearth rug with her tail curled comfortingly over her nose. A hump in one of the other Orientals indicated that Koko was in hiding again. In consternation Qwilleran went to the telephone and called a number in Mooseville.

"Hello, Lori. This is Qwill," he said.

"How's everything?... Glad to hear it. How's the baby?... Are you sure he isn't eating the cats' food?... Speaking of cats, I'm sorry to trouble you again, but I'd like to ask you a question about Koko's latest aberration. He's accustomed to wall-to-wall carpet in our Pickax apartment, you know, but here we have bare wood floors scattered with small rugs, and he's always hiding under them—something he's never done before... Well, there are different kinds: Orientals in the parlor and entrance hall, hooked rugs in the bedroom, braided rugs in the kitchen and dining area—all old and handmade. Koko prefers the Orientals, which are the thinnest and the most valuable. He's always been a snob... No, he tunnels under them in a neat, workmanlike way, making a hump in the rug. Wait a minute! Excuse me, Lori. I just got an idea! I'll call you back."

Qwilleran hung up, tamping his moustache with fervor. He grabbed a flashlight, rushed out to the barn, barged through the eye of the needle, frightening a barncat, plunged down the ladder into the stable, flashed his light into the southwest comer. There he found another wooden palette like the one on the threshing floor above. This one also leaned against the wall, but it was surrounded by rubble. When he pulled it aside he was gaping at a hole in the foot-thick stone wall. The opening was about four feet wide and three feet high, an arched tunnel of crumbling masonry with a floor of hard-packed clay. The arch was roughly mortared quarry stone. As far as the beam of the flashlight penetrated there was arched stone.

Qwilleran dropped to his knees and started to crawl. This was Ephraim's escape tunnel, he realized, evidently planned when public outcry alarmed him. The bill for the stone was dated three days after the explosion—the same day that Luther signed his X and agreed to build the tunnel secretly while the family traveled abroad.

Had Ephraim actually used this escape hatch on the night of October 29? It was quite possible. Qwilleran imagined furious hordes shouting obscenities in front of the farmhouse and throwing rocks at the windows, while Ephraim craftily crawled through the tunnel. No doubt, the trusted Bosworth had a horse ready—two horses, one for Ephraim's son—the saddlebags packed with valuables. Under cover of darkness the pair would ride along the Willoway, heading for Mooseville, where Ephraim would board a passenger boat to Canada across the lake. His wife, meanwhile, was taking refuge at the parsonage with Mr. and Mrs. Crawbanks. A deal had already been made with Enoch Dingleberry, and Ephraim's sons would carry out the remainder of the charade: killing Luther, who knew too much, then blaming the horse; staging the hanging with a hastily rigged effigy; announcing the suicide and producing the suicide note; mourning at their father's funeral. Little did they know that the rumor mill would go into operation, with their enemies taking credit for Ephraim's demise. What started the rumor, of course, was Mr. Crawbanks' discovery of the white sheet, recently left there by some Halloween prankster.

Composing this melodrama occupied Qwilleran's mind while he crawled slowly and painfully through the tunnel. It was rough on the hands, and he had a bad knee dating back to his years in the armed service. He sat down and pondered. What he needed was a pair of heavy gloves and some padding for his knees.

Carefully he backed out of the cramped space, brushed himself off and climbed the ladder. He could hear the playful shouts of the teenage yard crew as they raked leaves, bagging them and loading the bags in Mitch's blue pickup. They were working on the north side of the house, and Qwilleran sauntered through their midst en route to the west wing.

Mitch hailed him. "Hi, Qwill! Nice day for a walk."

Once inside the apartment he contemplated his strategy. Gloves were no problem; he had brought a pair of lined leather gloves from Pickax, and he was willing to sacrifice them for the tunnel investigation. How to pad his knees presented a challenge, however. He canvassed the apartment looking for likely material. All he could find was a stack of pink terry towels with Iris Cobb's monogram. They would have to do. Now he needed some kind of heavy cord to bind the towels around his knees.

Koko was following him around, sensing an adventure, and his eager presence gave Qwilleran an idea. It might be advantageous to take the cat to the tunnel, letting him walk ahead, prudently restrained by a leash. Miners used to lower canaries down the mineshaft to test for toxic gasses. If Koko sniffed any noxious fumes, he wouldn't succumb; he would raise holy hell as only an outraged Siamese can do. Koko had a blue leather harness, and the leash was a twelve-foot length of nylon cord, some of which could be used to bind the pink towels. Congratulating himself on his ingenuity, Qwilleran cut the leash down to a manageable six feet and !reserved the remainder for binding.

The yard crew was rapidly working its way around to the west side, and he hesitated to walk to the barn wearing leather gloves, leading Koko on a leash, and carrying an armful of pink towels. After pacing the floor for a while he went outdoors and asked Mitch for a plastic leaf bag.

"Going to do some raking, Qwill?"

"No, just bundling up some stuff to store in the barn." Now he was all set. Into the plastic bag he threw the pink towels, a second flashlight, gloves, the harness and two short lengths of cord. He stuffed Koko inside his shirt and added a loose jacket for camouflage. "This won't take long," he explained to the cat, "and I would appreciate your cooperation. Keep your mouth shut and don't exercise your claws."

Qwilleran waited until the volunteers gathered around Mitch's truck for a guzzle break. Then he slung the sack over his shoulder and headed for the barn. He could feel some wriggling inside his shirt, and he heard a few muffled yiks, but the barnyard was traversed without arousing suspicion. Avoiding exposure on the grassy ramp he scuttled around the east side of the barn and entered the stable through the livestock door in the rear. So far, so good!

First he trussed Koko, purring, into his harness and tied him to a printing press. Then he applied himself to wrapping legs with bath towels and cord, an idea that proved less achievable than it sounded. In fact, after the first attempt he found it impossible to bend his knees, and it was necessary to untie the cords and start again. Koko, becoming impatient, uttered some piercing yowls.

"Quiet!" Qwilleran growled. "I'm working as fast as I can."

At last they were ready. Koko in his blue harness and Qwilleran in his pink kneepads entered the tunnel, the cat leading the way and the man crawling after him. It was slow work. The clay floor of the tunnel was scattered with stones and chunks of mortar. Tossing them aside with one gloved hand and wielding the flashlight with the other, Qwilleran was obliged to hold Koko's leash in his teeth, trusting the cat not to make a sudden leap forward.

It was a slow crawl and a long crawl. After all, the original diagram showed the tunnel extending from the stable, under the carriage house and across the barnyard to the basement of the west wing. Qwilleran had read about such a tunnel in Europe, connecting a convent with the outside world: the convent was haunted, and human bones were eventually found in the tunnel. There were no bones in the Goodwinter tunnel, only beer cans and gum wrappers and some unidentified items that Koko saw fit to sniff. Qwilleran found the air in the tunnel stuffy, smelling of mold and mice, but Koko was experiencing a catty high.

They crawled on. The farther they progressed, the more rubble they encountered, and the faster the cat wanted to travel, yikking and tugging at his leash.

 "Arrgh!" Qwilleran growled through his teeth.

"Yow!" replied Koko impatiently.

They were nearing the southwest terminal, but there was no light at the end of the tunnel—just a wall of chipped stone. Scattered about were broken rocks, chunks of mortar, and a few discarded tools—chisels, hammers, and a drill. Also there was a great deal of dust. They crawled to the end, Qwilleran choking and trying to cough without unclenching his teeth.

Koko was the first to find it—a small, square, boxlike object in a dark corner of the tunnel.

A bomb! Qwilleran thought. Dynamite!

Twisting the end of the leash around one gloved hand, he used the other to flood the contraption with light. Then he moved toward it on his knees and found a button to press. For a moment there was dead silence in the tunnel, then... a hair-raising screech... an angry growl ending in a vicious snarl... the moans of the dying... the bong of a death knell... ghostly wailing and rattling... screams!

Koko shot off like a rocket, and Qwilleran on the other end of the leash went sprawling on the clay.

-21-

WHEN QWILLERAN EMERGED from the barn with his sackful of pink towels and yowling cat, Mitch Ogilvie cupped his hands and yelled across the barnyard, "Your phone's ringing!"

For two hours Qwilleran had been on hands and knees with hunched back, and he responded stiffly. Nevertheless, he made his way to the apartment quickly enough to catch the caller before she hung up.

"Oh, there you are, Qwill!" said Carol Lanspeak. "I let it ring fifteen times because I thought you were outdoors on a nice day like this. Were you outdoors?"

"Yes," he said, breathing hard.

"I've been to the hospital to see Verona. Baby is going to make it—and Verona's pregnant."

"I didn't know. How is she?"

"Not too good. She wants to go 'down home' and have Baby convalesce there. Larry's taking care of her expenses and giving her something to live on. Vince left her without a cent! That brute!"

"Have they found him?"

"I don't think so. The police have been talking to Verona, and Larry has asked his attorney to advise her."

"I feel sorry for Verona."

"So do I. We never really got to know her. She was so quiet and retiring. She volunteered for our cleaning committee and was very reliable. The reason I'm calling, Qwill—she has something she wants to tell you. She says it's important. Do you think you could go to the hospital tonight? I'm taking her to the airport tomorrow."

"I'll go. Thanks for letting me know."

"By the way, the board has voted to give Mitch the job," said Carol.

Polly Duncan was the next to call. "They've found him!" she said without any formalities. "Somewhere in Ohio. My assistant's mother-in-law heard it on the air and phoned the library.”

"He's guilty of more than just killing a hophead, I surmise."

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like to drop in to see you tonight—and discuss a few things," Qwilleran said.

"Come for dinner, and I'll whip up a curry."

"Uh... thanks, Polly, but I have an appointment in Pickax. See you after eight o'clock."

"Don't have dessert," she said. "We'll have pumpkin pie and coffee."

On the way to Pickax Qwilleran experienced a pang of remorse that he had not allowed Baby to visit the cats; it was pure selfishness on his part, he admitted. And now it wouldn't ever happen. It was perhaps a need for penance that led him to have dinner at the Dimsdale Diner. After some watery soup and oversalted cabbage rolls and unrecognizable coffee, he drove to the hospital.

He found Verona in a private room, sitting in a chair and picking at a meal tray. "I'm, sorry to interrupt your dinner," he said.

"I don't feel like eatin' any thin'," she said, pushing the tray away. "Have they caught him?" Her soft voice had lost its lilt and was now a dreary monotone.

"They found him somewhere in Ohio."

"I'm glad."

"Cheer up. Baby is going to be all right, and your eye is—looking better. The bruise is fading."

She touched her face. "I didn't bump into a door. We were arguin' and he hit me."

"When did it happen?"

"When he was leavin'—Monday night."

"You told me he left Monday noon.”

"That's what he told me to say." She turned away and looked out the window.

"Carol Lanspeak said you have something you want to tell me, Mrs. Boswell."

"That's not my name. I'm Verona Whitmoor."

"I like that better. It has a pleasant musical sound, like your speaking voice," he said.

She looked flustered and lowered her head. "I'm so ashamed. I was cleanin' the museum, gettin' it ready for Sunday, and I went in Iris's kitchen when you weren't there and took the cookbook."

"I knew you were the one," said Qwilleran, "after you sent me the meatloaf. It was her recipe."

"Vince liked her meatloaf so much, and I was tryin' to please him."

"I'm surprised you could read her handwriting."

"It was hard, but I figured it out. I meant to take it back, but then every thin' happened." She looked pitifully vulnerable and undernourished.

"Ms. Whitmoor, shouldn't you have something to eat? That apple pudding looks good."

"I'm not hungry."

"How did you happen to meet Vince?" Qwilleran asked. "I was workin' in a restaurant in Pittsburgh, and he used to come in. I felt sorry for him because he was always in pain—with his bad leg, you know. He was wounded in Vietnam."

Qwilleran huffed scornfully into his moustache. Verona went on. "We got friendly, and he invited me to come up here on a vacation. He said I could bring Baby. He didn't tell me about the money—not then."

"What money?"